Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

cans, rust-stained from, she suspected, similar usage in the past. The plink of raindrops onto metal made a particularly pervasive, annoying sound.

The rain wasn't as soothing as she had thought. She roamed restlessly through the apartment, unable to settle down. There were a number of things she could turn to: the manuscript, with its evocative, exciting reference to a house of stone; the genealogy, which she hadn't examined in detail; her notes on the discovery she had made in the cellar. They ought to be copied and expanded while the incident was still fresh in her memory.

She wasn't in the mood for any of those things. Instead she set to work preparing supper, hoping the mechanical, domestic chore would settle her nerves. A good healthy supper—broiled fish fillets, salad, brown rice with herbs, and chopped vegetables. She had finished this repast and was feeling more cheerful when the phone rang.

Hoping it wasn't Peggy announcing she would be delayed, she was pleased to hear Joan's voice.

"I'm bored," the latter announced flatly.

"You, the party animal?"

"No party tonight. I'm alone, I'm slightly hung over, and it's pouring down rain. Dreary."

"Ditto."

"Is it raining there too?"

"Yes, it is. This is long distance," Karen reminded her. "Did you call to talk about the weather? Have you heard anything more from Joe Cropsey?"

"No to both. I called to find out what thrilling new discoveries you made today. My life is so dull I derive vicarious excitement from listening to the adventures of my friends."

"I'm sorry about the beach house," Karen said. "If you had to pay a cancellation fee—"

"You've got to stop being so defensive. I wasn't even thinking about that."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I didn't have to pay anything, they had a waiting list a mile long. In case your conscience is still bothering you, I'm going to spend a glorious week in the mountains instead. With Sharon."

"Doing what?"

"I said, with Sharon. You know what her idea of a vacation is. It's some kind of spa. Riding, hiking, tennis, golf. And when we tire of those amusements there's a completely equipped exercise room."

Karen laughed. "Is Sharon bullying you? You don't have to go, you know."

"It won't be so bad, I guess," Joan said gloomily. "I could stand to lose a few pounds. Now tell me about your unhealthy, dangerous—dare I hope fattening?—life."

Karen described her supper. Joan groaned. "It sounds disgusting. Not even a glass of wine? A chocolate-chip cookie? You're inhuman. What did you do today?"

"I explored a dark, muddy, odorous basement with a guy who went out of his way to show me rats, snakes and spiders."

"You lucky devil. Who was the guy? Bill Meyer?"

"If you ever catch me in a dark basement with Bill Meyer, I'll agree to let Sharon psychoanalyze me." She gave Joan a lurid description, including one of the snake, but did not mention the carved stone face.

That information and other confirmatory evidence of her theory were best kept to herself until she was ready to spring the finished work on an admiring world.

"If you won't let me distract Bill, how about this other guy? You can't handle both of them."

"I have no intention of handling either one of them." Hearing a ribald chuckle from the other end of the line, she added, "Don't say it. Thanks for calling, Joan. I was in a rotten mood and you've cheered me up."

"Is that a hint I should hang up?"

"This is costing you a fortune."

"Too true. Okay, I'll say nighty-night. Take care of yourself."

Her frame of mind considerably improved, Karen was able to get some work done. She forced herself to type up her notes on the exploration of the cellar, so she could present Peggy with a neat workmanlike report, before she went back to the manuscript. It proved to be disappointing; after her first description of the stone house ("windowless and squat, like an extrusion from the rocky skin of the earth, held fast by giant vines that crawled across roof and walls") Ismene went into a long digression about the rights of man and Rousseau's theories of the noble savage. Pious moral soliloquies were common in novels of that type, and it wasn't the first time Ismene had succumbed to the pleasure of preaching to the reader, but Karen had to fight to keep from skipping ahead—reading the narrative instead of transcribing it, line by slow line. She knew the futility of that, however. The writing was too cramped and faded, the text too obscure. It had to be deciphered rather than read.

Sheer boredom finally forced her to call it a night. Tucking the manuscript and her notes into the briefcase, she stowed it away and got ready for bed. The drip of water into the coffee can had slowed, which made it even more annoying; she found she was waiting for the next plink and counting the seconds that elapsed between them. Muttering irritably she wadded up a few paper towels and put them in the coffee can. It seemed to work.

The rain had slackened. It fell slow and steady on the water-soaked ground, glistening on the leaves of the shrubs under Mrs. Fowler's window, dimming the glow of the streetlight. No other lights were visible. With moon and stars hidden by clouds, the night was very dark. Nothing moved in the blackness, not even a prowling cat. Cats had better sense than to go out in the rain.

So do I, Karen thought. Joan's mention of wine and chocolate had made her wish she had stocked up on both, but she hadn't wanted them badly enough to go looking for them. Tomorrow she'd get a bottle of Scotch for Peggy, and pick up something for supper. Peggy probably wouldn't arrive until late afternoon. Rather than go out for dinner they could settle in for a prolonged Show and Tell session. They had a lot to catch up on.

Mrs. Fowler's bedroom window shone steadily through the rainy night. Rather late for the old lady, Karen mused. Perhaps she was refreshing her memory